It felt nice for a second
There's no such thing as a good day on the timeline when you live in the bad timeline
I was all set to make a post last week about how we finally had a good day on the timeline. The Trump-Musk breakup was dominating headlines and social feeds, and for a brief moment it felt like the old Twitter—and the old timeline—was back. But within hours, the National Guard was being mobilized in Los Angeles, and any desire I had to celebrate the messy and public dissolution of the power couple of the broligarchy was replaced by shame and sickness.
There’s no such thing as a good day on the timeline anymore, because we are firmly in the Bad Timeline. Every flickering high is followed by a stomach-churning low the likes of which I could not have previously imagined.
This had me asking myself what I really miss when I miss a good day on the timeline. I thought I missed the kinetic chaos of the news days that kept me glued to my screen while quipping with friends and colleagues. It’s just not as common these days to gather around and observe the discourse. It felt nice for a second.
But why was I nostalgic? Because the troubles felt further away then? Because I was more cushioned in my privilege? I’m such an asshole! I was missing a version of social media where we all saw the same thing at the same time, even if we were arguing about it. It felt like community, even if it was brittle and built on scorn. It felt nice the same way that scratching a bug bite feels nice.
Social media is increasingly moving towards more community-oriented spaces, thanks at least partially to the implosion of Twitter and the rise of the fediverse. My overall take is that this is not a bad thing—smaller, community-moderated spaces have a lot more room for care, context, and growth. I’ve participated in some self-governing online communities, and while many eventually implode spectacularly, the ones that last are nurturing spaces that I credit with a lot of my growth.
Still, there’s undeniable sadness in this fragmentation. The turn towards more insular spaces feels, on some level, like an admission that there is no common ground to be had. And while we circle our wagons and tend to our own, horrors are unfolding.
For that reason, this isn’t an argument against the public feed. We need to see what’s happening in LA, in Gaza, and in our neighborhoods. Awareness is a prerequisite for action, and we can’t afford to look away. That also means staying vigilant when platforms suppress newsworthy content, whether it’s due to over-enforcement (a major risk with AI-powered moderation) or coordinated government pressure. The public square is still worth defending.
At the same time, small, intentional communities are more vital than ever. When you combine care, trust, and encryption with a shared commitment to doing what’s right, you can get a lot done. Mutual aid, safety planning, direct action—these all thrive in spaces where people truly know and support each other. It’s been said before, but it bears repeating: if you want to do something that matters right now, invest in community. And yes, that includes the ones we build online.